“Because he’s a person, not a piece of trash you can just dispose of because it’s not convenient to carry him around.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Gary said with a moist sniff. “I don’t want to stay if I’m not wanted.”

Bee nudged Constantine with her foot. “Tell him he’s wanted.”

Constantine considered her for a moment. “You can’t expect me to believe that you’ve formed a bond with a disembodied head after seeing it for a just a few minutes.”

“I can and I have,” she answered, tipping her chin up in a defiant move.

“And I don’t have time for a debate on the subject,” Constantine said, thrusting the cage at her. “Let’s leave before we regret standing here arguing about whether a head is worth all this trouble.”

“He is,” Bee said at the same time that Gary said happily, “I knew you wouldn’t leave me! We’re like best buds.”

“We are nothing of the sort.” Constantine tried to lessen his stride so that he and Bee weren’t walking at odds, but their rhythm was off until he took her hand in his.

“Bros. We are bros together,” Gary said, nodding. “Bros in solidarity.”

“Stop that!” Bee said, jerking back as if Constantine had struck her, and pulling her hand from his. “I don’t like being touched by strange men.”

“Dudebros. Is that a word? It should be. We are dudebros together against the world.”

“Do you favor women, then?” Constantine couldn’t keep from asking.

“Not in the sense you mean,” Bee said, trying to pull her hand back when he took it again. “I just don’t like people who I don’t know pawing me. Especially men like you.”

“I am not a men like me,” Constantine said indignantly, throwing grammar to the wind. “When I paw a woman, she enjoys it.”

“Ha! I bet that’s what women tell you, but no woman likes to be treated like something paw-worthy. Let go of me!”

“What’s not paw-worthy?” Gary asked. “I mean, people like to be touched. Men like to be touched. Women like to be touched. Knockers who are just heads like to be touched. Especially by men who have nice hands with long fingers, and sensitive, caring-looking knuckles.”

Constantine and Bee both stopped to look at the head, who bore a faraway look.

“Well, I don’t like to be touched,” Bee said, walking forward purposely until she reached the limit of the chain. “Not by women, disembodied knockers, or even dragons with dreamy knuckles.”

“My knuckles are not dreamy,” Constantine said quickly, and waited for her to turn back to him before he moved forward, once again taking her hand. “They are simply hands, nothing more. Functional in a manly sort of way, but just hands. They are certainly not worth commenting about.”

“For pity’s sake, will you stop trying to paw me!” Bee stopped and whirled around to face Constantine, banging the birdcage against his hand in an attempt to loosen the grip. “I’m not interested in you, okay? Talk about arrogance—will you get it through your thick head that just because you’re handsome, and have eyes that are the color of an old piece of amber, and hair that you think at first glance is just brown, but then you realize is shot through with dark honey, doesn’t mean that I’m going to swoon at your feet just because you keep touching me.”

“Do you dislike men?” Constantine asked.

“No! At least, not in the sense you mean.” She tugged down her shirt in an irritated manner. “I just don’t like being manhandled, okay? Not even by handsome dragons. Especially by handsome dragons.”

“You say the word dragon like we are some sort of beast. We are not human, but we are an ancient race, and have adopted human mores. We are polite, we are considerate—when it behooves us to be—and we have very nice manners.”

“Ha! I knew a dragon once, and he was anything but nice. He was always grabbing me, and teasing me with his fire, which hurt like the dickens if you want to know the truth.”

“You don’t like dragons?” Constantine couldn’t believe his ears. He’d met women who hadn’t desired him personally, but never one who was prepared to damn all of the dragonkin.

“Let’s just say that given past experience, I don’t seek out your company.”

Constantine stared at her in confusion, then did the only thing he could think of. He kissed her.

She started when his mouth claimed hers, but despite his guess that she’d push him away, or slap him for such a brash move, her mouth opened under his and welcomed him into her sweetness.

For about five seconds—but at the moment his tongue touched hers, she was suddenly a hellcat, one intent on getting as far away from him as possible.

“What… mother pus-bucket!” She wiped at her mouth, her eyes blazing at him. “What do you think you’re doing? Who gave you permission to molest me?”

“You enjoyed it,” he said by way of a non-answer.

“I did no such thing,” she said, clearly aghast.

“You didn’t slap me for kissing you,” he pointed out. “That’s what women in books always do.”

“Of course I didn’t slap you. I’m not the slapping sort of woman.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth for a few seconds and seemed to be unable to move on. “I can assure you that outside of gothic romances, women don’t need to resort to something so cliché as a slap to the face to get the point across that a man’s attentions are not welcome. Mace and pepper spray are more the modern woman’s way to deal with that.”

“I love kissing!” Gary piped up, apropos of nothing.

“I do not read gothic romances,” Constantine said with dignity. “Well, not often. Only when I can’t get a Georgette Heyer.”

Bee stared at him, her face expressing disbelief.

“What?” Constantine asked, feeling defensive. “You don’t care for books dealing with the manners and mores of mortals engaged in romantic escapades?”

“Not particularly, no. Manners and mores?” Her eyes narrowed a little. “You’re not using the books as a source of information, are you?”

Constantine, well aware that he’d picked up the books in an attempt to understand how society had changed during the centuries he had been deceased, maintained an injured silence.